I am on a lifetime program of monotonically increasing depravity.
I have no interests because I am a swirling biological soup from which occasional flashes of brilliance (and a daily outpouring of not-brilliance-I-shall-spare-you-the-scatalogical-term) emerge and dazzle and vanish *poof* into the ether. Mm, recycling. I used to think I had an internal structure, and was [insert word here, c'mon, you know you can] to spend hours exploring it. I was deluded about a lot of things. I used to be a Republican. I used to work within the military-industrial-academic complex. (I was a rocket scientist.)
I live here: Porcinea 219 W. 106th St., 1-E New York, NY 10025-3663 And I am a gazillion times more likely to respond to snail mail than to e-mail or a phone call.
I have a phone phobia, developed as an adult. I used to be the person my mother would make wrangle the phone, and I was darned good at it. What crackers call social engineering, I rocked at as a teen. I have always had exactly one person I'm comfortable talking to on the phone (hello! Rebecca Quattlebaum, best friend of my adolescence). Today, it is not my baby daddy.